FTERWHILES 



By James Whitcomb Riley 



AFTERWHILES 



(gj> t 0e fkame <&uf0or 
Neghborly Poems ; on Friendship, Grief and 

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The Flying Islands of the Night— A Fantastic 

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and Child Rhymes. 

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AFTERWHILES 



BY 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



FORTIETH THOUSAND 



Jnbtcmapofts 

BOWEN-MERRILL CO., PUBLISHERS 
1895 



. ta-s 



Copyright 1887 

BY 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 



48 65 55 

AUG 25 1942 



TO HUMBOLDT RILEY 



/ can not say, and I will not say 
That he is dead — he is just away. 



CONTENTS 



PROEM ...... 3 

HerrWeiser ...... 7 

The Beautiful City ..... 9 

Lockerbie Street . . . . .11 

Das Krist Kindel ..... 13 

Anselmo ....... 17 

A Home-Made Fairy Tale . .18 

The South Wind and the Sun . . . .20 

The Lost Kiss ..... 27 

The Sphinx . . . . . .29 

If I Knew what Poets Know .... 30 

Ike Walton's Prayer . . . . -31 

A Rough Sketch ..... 34 

Our Kind of a Man . . . . -35 

The Harper ...... 37 

Old Aunt Mary's . . . . .38 

Illileo ...... 40 

The King . . . • • .42 



(ix) 



CONTENTS 



A Bride ...... 44 

The Dead Lover . , . . .45 

A Song ...... 46 

When Bessie Died . . . . .48 

The Shower ...... 

A Life Lesson . . . . . .5 

A Scrawl ...... 5 

Away ...... 

Who Bides His Time ..... 55 

From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay . . 56 

Laughter Holding Both His Sides ... 57 



5" 



53 



SONNETS 

Pan ....... 61 

Dusk ....... 62 

June ....... 63 

Silence ....... 64 

Time ....... 65 

Sleep ....... 67 

Her Hair ...... 68 

Dearth . . . . . . .69 

A Voice from the Farm .... 70 

When She Comes Home . . . . .71 

Art and Love ...... 72 



CONTENTS xi 



IN DIALECT 

Griggsby's Station . . . . .75 

Knee-Deep in June ..... ?S 

When the Hearse Comes Back . . . .83 

A Canary at the Farm .... 86 

A Liz -Town Humorist . . . . . • 87 

Kingry'sMill . . . . 89 

JONEY . . . . . . -93 

Nothin'to Say ..... 96 

Like His Mother Used to Make . . . .98 

The Train-Misser ..... 100 

Granny . . . . . . .102 

Old October ..... 104 

Jim . . . . . . .106 

A Tale of the Airly Days IC g 

To Robert Burns . . . . .in 

A New Year's Tia^e at Willards's ... 114 

The Town Karnteel . . . . .122 

Regardin' Terry Hut . ... 124 

Leedle Dutch Baby . . . . .127 

Down on Wriggle Crick .... 128 

When de Folks is Gone . . . . .131 

The Little Town o' Tailholt . ... 132 

Note. — Acknowledgments are due the courtesy of the Century Mag- 
azine for reprint here of the poems "When SheComcs Home," and "Nothin 
to Say." 



AFTERWHILES 



PROEM 

Where are they — the Afterwhiles — 
Luring us the lengthening miles 
Of our lives? IV here is the dawn 
With the dew across the lawn 
Stroked with eager feet the far 
Way the hills and valleys are? 
Where the sun that smites the frown 
Of the eastward- ga^er down? 
Where the rifted wreathes of mist 
O'er us, tinged with amethyst, 
Round the mountain's steep defies? 
Where are all the afterwhiles? 

Afterwhile — and we will go 
Thither, yon, and to and fro — 
From the stifling city-streets 
To the country's cool retreats — 
From the riot to the rest 
Where hearts beat the placidest; 
Afterwhile, and we will fall 
Under breezy trees, and loll 
In the shade, with thirsty sight 
Drinking deep the blue delight 
Of the skies that will beguile 
Us as children — afterwhile. 
3 



PROEM 



After-while — and one intends 
To be gentler to his friends — 
To walk with them, in the hush 
Of still evenings, o'er the plush 
Of home-leading fields, and stand 
Long at parting, hand in hand: 
One, in time, will joy to take 
New resolves for someone's sake, 
And wear then the look that lies 
Clear and pure in other eyes — 
He will soothe and reconcile 
His own conscience — afterwhile. 

Afterwhile — we have in view 
A far scene to journey to, — 
Where the old home is, and where 
The old mother waits us there, 
Peering, as the time grows late, 
Down the old path to the gate. — 
How we'll click the latch that locks 
In the pinks and hollyhocks, 
And leap up the path once more 
Where she waits us at the door! — 
How we'll greet the dear old smtle, 
And the warm tears — afterwhile! 



PROEM 



Ah, the endless afterwhiles! — 
Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, 
In the distance far withdrawn, 
Stretching on, and on, and on, 
Till the fancy is footsore 
And faints in the dust before 
The last milestone's granite face, 
Hacked with : Here Beginneth Space. 
O far glimmering worlds and wings, 
Mystic smiles and beckonings, 
Lead us through the shadowy aisles, 
Out into the afterwhiles. 



HERR WEISER 



HERR WEISER 

HERR WEISER !— Three-score-years-and-ten — 
A hale white rose of his countrymen, 
Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, 
And blossomy as his German home — 
As blossomy, and as pure and sweet 
As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, 
Far withdrawn from the noisy town 
Where trade goes clamoring up and down, 
Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife 
May not trouble his tranquil life ! 

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust! — 

Quit of the city's heat and dust, 

Jostling down by the winding road, 

Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode. 

Tether the horse, as we onward fare 

Under the pear-trees trailing there, 

And thumping the wooden bridge at night 

With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, 

Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, 

Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. 

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, 
And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace 
Of unassuming honesty, 
Be there to welcome you and me ! 



HERR IVEISER 



And what though the toil of the farm be stopped 
And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, 
While the prayerful master's knees are set 
In beds of pansy, and mignonette, 
And lily and aster and columbine, 
Offered in love, as yours and mine? — 

What, but a blessing of kindly thought, 

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not ! — 

What, but a spirit of lustrous love 

White as the aster he bends above ! — 

What, but an odorous memory 

Of the dear old man, made known to me 

In days demanding a help like his, — 

As sweet as the life of the lily is— 

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise 

Born of a lily in paradise. 



THE BEAUTIFUL CITY 



THE BEAUTIFUL CITY 

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY ! Forever 

Its rapturous praises resound ; 
We fain would behold it— but never 

A glimpse of its glory is found : 
We slacken our lips at the tender 

White breasts of our mothers to hear 
Of its marvelous beauty and splendor ;— 

We see — but the gleam of a tear ! 

Yet never the story may tire us— 

First graven in symbols of stone — 
Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus, 

And parchment, and scattered and blown 
By the winds of the tongues of all nations, 

Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled 
Down the rack of a hundred translations, 

From the earliest lisp of the world. 

We compass the earth and the ocean, 

From the Orient's uttermost light, 
To where the last ripple in motion 

Lips hem of the skirt of the night,— 
But the Beautiful City evades us— 

No spire of it glints in the sun — 
No glad-bannered battlement shades us 

When all our long journey is done. 



io THE BEAUTIFUL CITY 

Where lies it? We question and listen ; 

We lean from the mountain, or mast, 
And see but dull earth, or the glisten 

Of seas inconceivably vast : 
The dust of the one blurs our vision— 

The glare of the other our brain, 
Nor city nor island elysian 

In all of the land or the main ! 

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders 

Of organs tumultuous roll, 
And the longing heart listens and wonders, 

And the eyes look aloft from the soul, 
But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, 

Swoons wholly away and is dead ; 
And our eyes only reach where the painter 

Has dabbled a saint overhead. 

The Beautiful City ! O mortal, 

Fare hopefully on in thy quest, 
Pass down through the green grassy portal 

That leads to the Valley of Rest, 
There first passed the One who, in pity 

Of all thy great yearning, awaits 
To point out The Beautiful City, 

And loosen the trump at the gates. 



LOCKERBIE STREET 



LOCKERBIE STREET 

SUCH a dear little street it is, nestled away 
From the noise of the city and heat of the day, 
In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, 
With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the 

breeze 
Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet 
With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street ! 

There is such a relief, from the clangor and din 
Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in 
Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering 

shade 
Of the trees waving over the long promenade, 
And littering lightly the ways of our feet 
With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street. 

And the nights that come down the dark pathways 

of dusk, 
With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk 
In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, 
And looped up with lilies for lovers to use 
In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat 
Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street. 



LOCKERBIE STREET 



O, my Lockerbie street ! You are fair to be seen — 
Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene 
Afternoon of the night— you are one to my heart, 
And I love you above all the phrases of art, ^ 
For no language could frame, and no lips could repeat 
My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street. 



DAS KR1ST KIN DEL 



DAS KRIST KINDEL 

I HAD fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight 
Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December 

night; 
And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my 

throne"— 
The old split-bottomed rocker — and was musing all alone. 

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer 

door, 
And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza 

floor; 
But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream 
That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. 

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my 
cigar, 

With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-en- 
folded star ;— 

And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, 

With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a 
sleigh. 

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, 
1 saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair — 



14 DAS KRIST KIN DEL 

A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he ap- 
peared, 

And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his 
beard. 

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, 
On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the 

hearth ; 
And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, 
I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium. 

And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage 
Alive with little actors of a very tender age ; 
And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, 
And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when 
they talked. 

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest 

dew, 
And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven 

through ; 
And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell 
Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. 

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with 

joy, 
Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; 

And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, 

And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see. 



DAS KRIST KIN DEL 



'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double chin, 
And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blos- 

• som in ; 
And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and 

reeds, 
As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds. 

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her 
That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; 
And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the 

air 
Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer :— 

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, 
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — 
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee 
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. 

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone 
As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; 
And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, 
We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon. 

You have given us a shepherd — You have given us a guide, 
And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent Him from 

Your side, — 
But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open 

wide 
To welcome His returning when His works are glorified. 



1 6 DAS KRIST KIN DEL 

By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea, 
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — 
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee 
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. 

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the re- 
frain, 

Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty win- 
dow-pane ; 

And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel 

Who brings the world good tidings,—" It is Christmas- 
all is well!" 



ANSELMO 17 



ANSELMO 

YEARS did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace,— 

Prayed, fasted and did penance dire and dread ; 
Did kneel with bleeding knees and rainy face, 

And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head ; 
Yea, still, with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, 

Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked in- 
sanely; 
And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, 

And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly! 

A time, from out of swoon, I lifted eye, 

To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, 
Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, 

And I did pray God's grace might rest on him.— 
Then, lo ! a gentle voice fell on mine ears — 

" Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter ; 
Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, 

And lift them, white and pure, with love and laughter !" 

So is it now for all men else I pray ; 
So is it I am blest and glad alway. 



A HOME-MADE FAIRY TALE 



A HOME-MADE FAIRY TALE 

BUD, come here to your Uncle a spell, 
And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell — 
For it's a secret and shore-nuff true, 
And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you ! — 
But out in the garden, under the shade 
Of the apple-trees, where we romped and played 
Till the moon was up, and you thought I'd gone 
Fast asleep,— That was all put on ! 
For I was a-watchin' something queer 
Goin' on there in the grass, my dear ! — 
'Way down deep in it, there I see 
A little dude fairy who winked at me, 
And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low 
And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to ! 
I kept still — watchin' him closer — and 
I noticed a little guitar in his hand, 
Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee — and laid 
His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade ; 
And then climbed up on the shell of a snail — 
Carefully dusting his swallowtail — 
And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread, 
This little guitar, you remember, I said ! 
And there he trinkled and trilled a tune — 
; My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon !" 



A HOME-MADE FAIRY TALE ig 



Till, presently, out of the clover-top 

He seemed to be singing to, came, k'pop ! 

The purtiest, daintiest fairy face 

In all this world, or any place ! 

Then the little ser'nader waved his hand, 

As much as to say, " We'll excuse^ow/" and 

I heard, as I squinted my eyelids to, 

A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew ! 



THE SOUTH IVIND AND THE SUN 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 

O THE South Wind and the Sun ! 

How each loved the other one — 
Full of fancy — full of folly — 

Full of jollity and fun ! 

How they romped and ran about, 

Like two boys when school is out, 
With glowing face, and lisping lip, 

Low laugh, and lifted shout ! 

And the South Wind— he was dressed 
With a ribbon round his breast 

That floated, flapped and fluttered 
In a riotous unrest, 
And a drapery of mist, 
From the shoulder and the wrist 

Flowing backward with the motion 
Of the waving hand he kissed. 

And the Sun had on a crown 
Wrought of gilded thistledown, 

And a scarf of velvet vapor, 
And a raveled-rainbow gown ; 
And his tinsel-tangled hair, 
Tossed and lost upon the air, 

Was glossier and flossier 
Than any anywhere. 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 

And the South Wind's eyes were two 

Little dancing drops of dew, 
As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, 

And blew and blew and blew ! 

And the Sun's— like diamond-stone, 

Brighter yet than ever known, 
As he knit his brows and held his breath, 

And shone and shone and shone ! 

And this pair of merry fays 

Wandered through the summer days ; 
Arm-in-arm they went together 

Over heights of morning haze — 

Over slanting slopes of lawn 

They went on and on and on, 
Where the daisies looked like star-tracks 

Trailing up and down the dawn. 

And where'er they found the top 

Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop 
They chucked it underneath the chin 

And praised the lavish crop, 

Till it lifted with the pride 

Of the heads it grew beside, 
And then the South Wind and the Sun 

Went onward satisfied. 



22 THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 

Over meadow-lands they tripped, 

Where the dandelions dipped 
In crimson foam of clover-bloom, 

And dripped and dripped and dripped ; 

And they clinched the bumble-stings, 

Gauming honey on their wings, 
And bundling them in lily-bells, 

With maudlin murmurings. 

And the humming-bird, that hung 

Like a jewel up among 
The tilted honeysuckle-horns, 

They mesmerized, and swung 

In the palpitating air, 

Drowsed with odors strange and rare, 
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away, 

And left him hanging there. 

And they braided blades of grass 
Where the truant had to pass ; 

And they wriggled through the rushes 
And the reeds of the morass, 
Where they danced, in rapture sweet, 
O'er the leaves that laid a street 

Of undulant mosaic for 
The touches of their feet. 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 23 

By the brook with mossy brink, 

Where the cattle came to drink, 
They trilled and piped and whistled 

With the thrush and bobolink, 

Till the kine, in listless pause, 

Switched their tails in mute applause, 
With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, 

And bubble-dripping jaws. 

And where the melons grew, 

Streaked with yellow, green and blue, 
These jolly sprites went wandering 

Through spangled paths of dew ; 

And the melons, here and there, 

They made love to, everywhere, 
Turning their pink souls to crimson 

With caresses fond and fair. 

Over orchard walls they went, 

Where the fruited boughs were bent 
Till they brushed the sward beneath them 

Where the shine and shadow blent ; 

And the great green pear they shook 

Till the sallow hue forsook 
Its features, and the gleam of gold 

Laughed out in every look. 



24 THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 

And they stroked the downy cheek 
Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, 

And flushed it into splendor ; 
And, with many an elfish freak, 
Gave the russet's rust a wipe — 
Prankt the rambo with a stripe, 

And the winesap blushed its reddest 
As they spanked the pippins ripe. 

Through the woven ambuscade 
That the twining vines had made, 

They found the grapes, in clusters, 
Drinking up the shine and shade— 
Plumpt, like tiny skins of wine, 
With a vintage so divine 

That the tongue of fancy tingled 
With the tang of muscadine. 

And the golden-banded bees, 
Droning o'er the flowery leas, 

They bridled, reined, and rode away 
Across the fragrant breeze, 
Till in hollow oak and elm 
They had groomed and stabled them 

In waxen stalls that oozed with dews 
Of rose and lily-stem. 



THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 25 

Where the dusty highway leads, 

High above the wayside weeds 
They sowed the air with butterflies 

Like blooming flower-seeds, 

Till the dull grasshopper sprung 

Half a man's height up, and hung 
Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, 

And sung and sung and sung ! 

And they loitered, hand in hand, 

Where the snipe along the sand 
Of the river ran to meet them 

As the ripple meets the land, 

Till the dragonfly, in light 

Gauzy armor, burnished bright, 
Came tilting down the waters 

In a wild, bewildered flight. 

And they heard the killdee's call, 

And afar, the waterfall, 
But the rustle of a falling leaf 

They heard above it all ; 

And the trailing willow crept 

Deeper in the tide that swept 
The leafy shallop to the shore, 

And wept and wept and wept ! 



26 THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN 

And the fairy vessel veered 
From its moorings — tacked and steered 
For the center of the current- 
Sailed away and disappeared : 
And the burthen that it bore 
From the long-enchanted shore — 
"Alas ! the South Wind and the Sun !" 
1 murmur evermore. 

For the South Wind and the Sun, 
Each so loves the other one, 

For all his jolly folly, 
And frivolity and fun, 
That our love for them they weigh 
As their fickle fancies may, 

And when at last we love them most, 
They laugh and sail away. 



THE LOST KISS 27 



THE LOST KISS 

I PUT by the half-written poem, 

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
Writes on, — " Had I words to complete it, 

Who'd read it, or who'd understand? " 
But the little bare feet on the stairway, 

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, 
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 

Cry up to me over it all. 

So I gather it up— where was broken 

The tear-faded thread of my theme, 
Telling how, as one night I sat writing, 

A fairy broke in on my dream, 
A little inquisitive fairy — 

My own little girl, with the gold 
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy 

Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 

'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded— 

" For was it a moment like this," 
I said, " when she knew I was busy, 

To come romping in for a kiss? — 
Come rowdying up from her mother, 

And clamoring there at my knee 
For ' One 'ittle kiss for my dolly, 

And one 'ittle uzzer for me!'" 



28 THE LOST KISS 



God pity the heart that repelled her, 

And the cold hand that turned her away, 
And take, from the lips that denied her, 

This answerless prayer of to-day ! 
Take, Lord, from my mem'ry forever 

That pitiful sob of despair, 
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, 

And the one piercing cry on the stair ! 

I put by the half- written poem, 

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
Writes on, "Had I words to complete it, 

Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" 
But the little bare feet on the stairway, 

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, 
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 

Cry up to me over it all. 



THE SPHINX 29 



THE SPHINX 

I KNOW all about the Sphinx— 
I know even what she thinks, 
Staring with her stony eyes 
Up forever at the skies. 

For last night I dreamed that she 
Told me all the mystery — 
Why for ceons mute she sat : — 
She was just cut out for that ! 



3 o IF I KNEIV WHAT POETS KNOIV 



IF I KNEW WHAT POETS KNOW 

IF I knew what poets know, 

Would I write a rhyme 
Of the buds that never blow 

In the summer time? 
Would I sing of golden seeds 
Springing up in ironweeds? 
And of raindrops turned to snow, 
If I knew what poets know ? 

Did I know what poets do, 

Would I sing a song 
Sadder than the pigeon's coo 

When the days are long ? 
Where I found a heart in pain, 
I would make it glad again ; 
And the false should be the true, 
Did I know what poets do. 

If I knew what poets know, 

I would find a theme 
Sweeter than the placid flow 

Of the fairest dream ; 
I would sing of love that lives 
On the errors it forgives ; 
And the world would better grow 
If I knew what poets know. 



IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 31 



IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 

I CRAVE, dear Lord, 
No boundless hoard 
Of gold and gear, 
Nor jewels fine, 
Nor lands, nor kine, 
Nor treasure-heaps of anything. — 
Let but a little hut be mine 
Where at the hearthstone I may hear 
The cricket sing, 
And have the shine 
Of one glad woman's eyes to make, 
For my poor sake, 
Our simple home a place divine ; — 
Just the wee cot — the cricket's chirr — 
Love, and the smiling face of her. 

I pray not for 
Great riches, nor 
For vast estates and castle-halls, — 
Give me to hear the bare footfalls 
Of children o'er 
An oaken floor 
New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread 
With but the tiny coverlet 
And pillow for the baby's head ; 



IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 



And, pray Thou, may 
The door stand open and the day 
Send ever in a gentle breeze, 
With fragrance from the locust-trees, 

And drowsy moan of doves, and blur 
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, 

With afterhushes of the stir 
Of intermingling sounds, and then 

The good-wife and the smile of her 

Filling the silences again — 

The cricket's call, 

And the wee cot, 

Dear Lord of all, 

Deny me not ! 

I pray not that 
Men tremble at 
My power of place 
And lordly sway,— 
I only pray for simple grace 
To look my neighbor in the face 

Full honestly from day to day — 
Yield me his horny palm to hold, 
And I'll not pray 
For gold ; — 
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, 
It hath the kingliest smile on earth— 



IKE IV ALTON'S PRAYER 33 

The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, 
Hath never need of coronet. 
And so I reach, 

Dear Lord, to Thee, 
And do beseech 
Thou givest me 
The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, 
Love, and the glad sweet face of her ! 



34 A ROUGH SKETCH 



A ROUGH SKETCH 

I CAUGHT, for a second, across the crowd- 
Just for a second, and barely that — 
A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, 
Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat— 
With small, gray eyes, of a look as keen 
As the long, sharp nose that grew between. 

And I said : 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, 

Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, 
On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown 
Hither and thither and everywhere — 
With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, 
And nose like the beak of a bird of prey ! 



OUR KIND OF A MAN 35 



OUR KIND OF A MAN 

I. 
THE kind of a man for you and me ! 
He faces the world unflinchingly, 
And smites, as long as the wrong resists, 
With a knuckled faith and force like fists : 
He lives the life he is preaching of, 
And loves where most is the need of love ; 
His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, 
And his face sublime through the blind man's tears ; 
The light shines out where the clouds were dim, 
And the widow's prayer goes up for him ; 
The latch is clicked at the hovel door, 
And the sick man sees the sun once more, 
And out o'er the barren fields he sees 
Springing blossoms and waving trees, 
Feeling as only the dying may, 
That God's own servant has come that way, 
Smoothing the path as it still winds on 
Through the golden gate where his loved have gone. 

II. 

The kind of a man for me and you ! 
However little of worth we do 
He credits full, and abides in trust 
That time will teach us how more is just. 



36 OUR KIND OF A MAN 

lie walks abroad, and he meets all kinds 
Of querulous and uneasy minds, 
And, sympathizing, he shares the pain 
Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain ; 
And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand, 
We are surely coming to understand ! 
He looks on sin with pitying eyes — 
E'en as the Lord, since Paradise, — 
Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow- 
As scarlet, they shall be white as snow? — 
And, feeling still, with a grief half glad, 
That the bad are as good as the. good are bad, 
He strikes straight out for the Right— and he 
Is the kind of a man for you and me ! 



THE HARPER 37 



THE HARPER 

LIKE a drift of faded blossoms 

Caught in a slanting rain, 
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp 

In a tremulous refrain. 

Patter, and tinkle, and drip, and drip ! 

Ah ! but the chords were rainy sweet ! 
And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, 

As he played there in the street. 

Patter, and drip, and tinkle ! 

And there was the little bed 
In the corner of the garret, 

And the rafters overhead ! 

And there was the little window — 

Tinkle, and drip, and drip! — 
The rain above, and a mother's love, 

And God's companionship ! 



38 OLD AUNT MARY'S 



OLD AUNT MARY'S 

WASN'T it pleasant, O brother mine, 
In those old days of the lost sunshine 
Of youth— when the Saturday's chores were through, 
And the " Sunday's wood " in the kitchen, too, 
And we went visiting, " me and you," 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

It all comes back so clear to-day ! 
Though I am as bald as you are gray — 
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, 
We patter along in the dust again, 
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's ! 

We cross the pasture, and through the wood 
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, 
Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, 
And the buzzard " raised " in the " clearing" sky 
And lolled and circled, as we went by 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And then in the dust of the road again ; 
And the teams we met, and the countrymen ; 
And the long highway, with sunshine spread 
As thick as butter on country bread, 
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 



OLD AUNT MARY'S 39 

Why, I see her now in the open door, 
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er 
The clapboard roof !— And her face — ah, me ! 
Wasn't it good for a boy to see— 
And wasn't it good for a boy to be 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

And O my brother, so far away, 
This is to tell you she waits to-day 
To welcome us :— Aunt Mary fell 
Asleep this morning, whispering, " Tell 
The boys to come ! " And all is well 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 



4 o ILLILEO 



ILLILEO 

ILLILEO, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales— 
The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered 

scales ; 
The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, 
And all your words were sweeter than the notes of night- 
ingales. 

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, 

With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of 

stone, 
There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone 
So mystically, musically mellow as your own. 

You whispered low, Illileo — so low the leaves were mute, 
And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain 

pursuit ; 
And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute : 
And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the 

fruit. 

Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, 

What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus 

in this? — 
Let them reeling reach to win me— even Heaven I would 

miss, 
Grasping earthward !— I would cling here, though I clung 

by just a kiss. 



ILLILEO 41 



And blossoms should grow odorless — and lilies all aghast — 
And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through 

the vast, 
Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last. — 
So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past. 

Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws 
Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, 
A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose 
Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a 
rose. 



42 THE KING 



THE KING 

THEY rode right out of the morning sun — 

A glimmering, glittering cavalcade 
Of knights and ladies, and every one 

In princely sheen arrayed ; 
And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, 
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red 
That spurted about in the breeze and bled 
In the bloom of the everglade. 

And they rode high over the dewy lawn, 
With brave, glad banners of every hue 
That rolled in ripples, as they rode on 

In splendor, two and two ; 
And the tinkling links of the golden reins 
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains 
As the castanets in a dream of Spain's 

Intensest gold and blue. 

And they rode and rode ; and the steeds they neighed 

And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides 
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played 

Like the moon on rippling tides ; 
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, 
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, 
And jostled in time to the teeming throng, 

And their knightly song besides. 



THE KING 43 



Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, 

And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild 
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her 

As one at a willful child, — 
And as knight and lady away they flew, 
And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too, 
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, 

He kissed his hand and smiled.— 

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, 
The pageant glittered across the plain, 
And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower 

Was only a crimson stain. 
And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, 
As he blends these words with the wailing blast : 
It is the King of the Year rides past ! " 

And Autumn is here again. 



44 A BRIDE 



A BRIDE 

"O I AM weary ! " she sighed, as her billowy 
Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold 
That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy, 

Graceful and fair as a goddess of old : 
Over her jewels she flung herself drearily, 

Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, 
Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily 
Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest. 
—And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror 
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her ! 

" Weary ? "—of what? Could we fathom the mystery?— 
Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears 
And wash with their dews one white face from her his- 
tory, 
Set like a gem in the red rust of years? 
Nothing will rest her— unless he who died of her 

Strayed from his grave, and, in place of the groom, 
Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, 
Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom. 
—And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror 
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her ! 



THE DEAD LOVER 45 



THE DEAD LOVER 

TIME is so long when a man is dead ! 

Some one sews ; and the room is made 
Very clean ; and the light is shed 

Soft through the window-shade. 

Yesterday I thought: " I know 
Just how the bells will sound, and how 

The friends will talk, and the sermon go, 
And the hearse-horse bow and bow! " 

This is to-day ; and 1 have no thing 
To think of — nothing whatever to do 

But to hear the throb of the pulse of a wing 
That wants to fly back to you. 



46 A SONG 



A SONG 

THERE is ever a song somewhere, my dear ; 

There is ever a something sings alway : 
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, 

And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. 
The sunshine showers across the grain, 

And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree ; 
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, 

The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear- 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — 

There is ever a song somewhere ! 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue: 
The robin pipes when the sun is here, 

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. 
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow 

And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere ; 
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. 



A SONG 47 



There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear- 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — 
There is ever a song somewhere ! 



48 WHEN BESSIE DIED 



WHEN BESSIE DIED 

u If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped — " 

WHEN Bessie died— 
We braided the brown hair, and tied 
It just as her own little hands 
Had fastened back the silken strands 
A thousand times— the crimson bit 
Of ribbon woven into it 
That she had worn with childish pride — 
Smoothed down the dainty bow — and cried- 
When Bessie died. 

When Bessie died— 

We drew the nursery blinds aside, 

And, as the morning in the room 

Burst like a primrose into bloom, 

Her pet canary's cage we hung 

Where she might hear him when he sung— 

And yet not any note he tried, 

Though she lay listening folded-eyed. 

When Bessie died— 

We writhed in prayer unsatisfied ; 

We begged of God, and He did smile 

In silence on us all the while ; 



WHEN BESSIE DIED 49 

And we did see Him, through our tears, 
Enfolding that fair form of hers, 
She laughing back against His love 
The kisses we had nothing of — 
And death to us He still denied, 
When Bessie died — 

When Bessie died. 



5o THE SHOWER 



THE SHOWER 

THE landscape, like the awed face of a child, 
Grew curiously blurred ; a hush of death 

Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild 
The zephyr held its breath. 

No wavering glamour-work of light and shade 
Dappled the shivering surface of the brook ; 

The frightened ripples in their ambuscade 
Of willows thrilled and shook. 

The sullen day grew darker, and anon 
Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky ; 

With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on 
The storm's artillery. 

The cloud above put on its blackest frown, 
And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, 

The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down 
In raveled shreds of rain : 

While 1, transfigured by some wondrous art, 
Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, 

My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart 
Drenched with the love of God. 



A LIFE-LESSON 51 



A LIFE-LESSON 

THERE! little girl; don't cry! 

They have broken your doll, I know ; 
And your tea-set blue, 
And your play-house, too, 
Are things of the long ago ; 
But childish troubles will soon pass by — 
There ! little girl ; dont cry ! 

There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your slate, I know ; 
And the glad, wild ways 
Of your school-girl days 
Are things of the long ago ; 
But life and love will soon come by. — 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your heart, I know ; 
And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago ; 
But Heaven holds all for which you sigh, 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 



52 A SCRAWL 



A SCRAWL 

I WANT to sing something— but this is all — 

I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull, 
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall 
Limp and unlovable. 

Words will not say what I yearn to say— 
They will not walk as I want them to ; 
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way 
Of my telling my love for you. 

Simply take what the scrawl is worth — 

Knowing I love you as sun the sod 
On the ripening side of the great round earth 
That swings in the smile of God. 



AWAY 53 



AWAY 

I CAN NOT say, and I will not say 
That he is dead. — He is just away ! 

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, 
He has wandered into an unknown land, 

And left us dreaming how very fair 
It needs must be, since he lingers there. 

And you — O you, who the wildest yearn 
For the old-time step and the glad return, — 

Think of him faring on, as dear 

In the love of There as the love of Here ; 

And loyal still, as he gave the blows 

Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes.- 

Mild and gentle, as he was brave,— 
When the sweetest love of his life he gave 

To simple things : —Where the violets grew 
Pure as the eyes they were likened to, 

The touches of his hands have strayed 
As reverently as his lips have prayed: 



54 



AWAY 



When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred 
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird ; 

And he pitied as much as a man in pain 
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.— 

Think of him still as the same, I say : 
He is not dead— he is just away ! 



W HO BIDES HIS TIME 55 



WHO BIDES HIS TIME 

WHO bides his time, and day by day 

Faces defeat full patiently, 
And lifts a mirthful roundelay, 

However poor his fortunes be,— 
He will not fail in any qualm 

Of poverty— the paltry dime 

It will grow golden in his palm, 

Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time— he tastes the sweet 

Of honey in the saltest tear ; 
And though he fares with slowest feet 

Joy runs to meet him, drawing near: 
The birds are heralds of his cause ; 

And, like a never-ending rhyme, 
The roadsides bloom in his applause, 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time and fevers not 
In the hot race that none achieves, 

Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought 
With crimson berries in the leaves ; 

And he shall reign a goodly king, 
And sway his hand o'er every clime, 

With peace writ on his signet ring, 
Who bides his time. 



56 HEADBOARD OF A GRAVE IN PARAGUAY 



FROM THE HEADBOARD OF A GRAVE IN 
PARAGUAY 

A TROTH, and a grief, and a blessing, 
Disguised them and came this way,— 

And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, 
And one was a rainy day. 

And they met betimes with this maiden,— 
And the promise it spake and lied, 

And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, 
And the rainy day— she died. 



LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES 57 



LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES 

AYE, thou varlet ! Laugh away ! 
All the world's a holiday ! 
Laugh away, and roar and shout 
Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out! 
Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes 
Unto bursting ; pelt thy thighs 
With thy swollen palms and roar 
As thou never hast before ! 
Lustier ! wilt thou ! peal on peal ! 
Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel- 
Wrestle with thy loins, and then 
Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again ! 



SONNETS 



(59) 



PAN 



PAN 

THIS PAN is but an idle god, I guess, 

Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams 
He loiters listlessly by woody streams, 

Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness ; 

Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress 

Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams 
Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems 

Drugged with a joy unutterable— unless 
His low pipes whistle hints of it far out 

Across the ripples to the dragonfly 

That, like a wind-born blossom blown about, 

Drops quiveringly down, as though to die — 
Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt 
Whether to fan his wings or fly without. 



62 DUSK 



DUSK 

THE frightened herds of clouds across the sky 

Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day 
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray 

And sombre twilight. Far, and faint, and high, 

The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry 
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway 
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray 

Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. 

The children, riotous from school, grow bold 

And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust 

Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold 
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust 

In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold 
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust. 



JUNE 63 



JUNE 

QUEENLY month of indolent repose! 

I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, 
As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom 

1 nestle like a drowsy child and doze 

The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws 
The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom 
And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom 

Before thy listless feet : The lily blows 
A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade ; 

And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, 
Thy harvest-armies gather on parade ; 

While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, 
A voice calls out of alien lands of shade, — 
"All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year ! " 



64 SILENCE 



SILENCE 

THOUSANDS and thousands of hushed years ago, 

Out on the edge of Chaos, all alone 

I stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrown 
Above a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow, 
Nor any motion won of winds that blow, 

Nor any sound of watery wail or moan, 

Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertone 
Of any tide lost in the night below. 
So still it was, I mind me, as I laid 

My thirsty ear against mine own faint sigh 
To drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid 

'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled by 
The one starved star that tottered through the shade 

And came tiptoeing toward me down the sky. 



TIME 65 

TIME 

I 

THE ticking — ticking— ticking of the clock !— 
That vexed me so last night ! — " For though Time keeps 
Such drowsy watch," I moaned, " he never sleeps, 

But only nods above the world to mock 

Its restless occupant, then rudely rock 
It as the cradle of a babe that weeps ! " 
I seemed to see the seconds piled in heaps 

Like sand about me ; and at every shock 

Of the harsh bell, tolling a new hour's birth, 
The sandy pyramids were swirled away 

As by a desert-storm that swept the earth 
Stark as a granary floor, whereon the gray 

And mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearth 
Came crawling, like a sickly child, to lay 
Ls pale face next mine own and weep for day. 

II 

Wait for the morning ! Ah ! we wait indeed 
For daylight, we who toss about through stress 
Of vacant-armed desires and emptiness 

Of all the warm, warm touches that we need, 

And the warm kisses upon which we feed 
5 



66 TIME 



Our famished lips in fancy ! May God bless 
The starved lips of us with but one caress 

Warm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed! 

... A wild prayer !— bite thy pillow, praying so— 
Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn 

Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe 

And time be drained of sorrow ! Long ago 
We heard the crowing cock, with answer drawn 
As hoarsely sad at throat as sobs . . . Pray on ! 






SLEEP 67 



SLEEP 

THOU drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink, 
Muse on me,— drifting out upon thy dreams, 
I lave my soul as in enchanted streams 

Where reveling satyrs pipe along the brink, 

And, tipsy with the melody they drink, 
Uplift their dangling hooves and down the beams 
Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems 

An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink, 
Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly, — 

Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine, 
And siren-arms that coil their sorcery 

About my neck, with kisses so divine, 
The heavens reel above me, and the sea 
Swallows and licks its wet lips over me. 



68 HER HAIR 



HER HAIR 

THE beauty of her hair bewilders me— 

Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide 

Swirling about the ears on either side, 
And storming round the neck tumultuously : 
Or like the lights of old antiquity 

Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide, 

Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified 
In chastest marble, nude of drapery. 
And so I love it.— Either unconfined ; 

Or plaited in close braidings manifold ; 
Or smoothly drawn ; or indolently twined 

In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled 
At any lightest kiss ; or by the wind 

Whipped out in flossy ravelings of gold. 



DEARTH 69 



DEARTH 

I HOLD your trembling hand to-night— and yet 
I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, 
My heart is such a curious design 
Of trust and jealousy ! Your eyes are wet- 
So must I think they jewel some regret, — 
' And lo, the loving arms that round me twine 

Cling only as the tendrils of a vine 
Whose fruit has long been gathered : I forget, 
While crimson clusters of your kisses press 
Their wine out on my lips, my royal fare 
Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess 

They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, 
With fuller flavoring of happiness 
Then e'en your broken sobs may now declare. 



7 o A VOICE FROM THE FARM 



A VOICE FROM THE FARM 

IT is my dream to have you here with me, 
Out of the heated city's dust and din- 
Here where the colts have room to gambol in, 
And kine to graze, in clover to the knee. 
I want to see your wan face happily 
Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been 
In use since the old games you used to win 
When we pitched horseshoes : And I want to be 
At utter loaf with you in this dim land 
Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make 
Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields 
His bulky flight, as we cease converse and 
In a dusk like velvet smoothly take 
Our way toward home across the dewy fields. 



IV HEN SHE COMES HOME 71 



WHEN SHE COMES HOME 

WHEN she comes home again ! A thousand ways 

I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 

Of my glad welcome : I shall tremble— yes ; 
And touch her, as when first in the old days 
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. 

Then silence : And the perfume of her dress : 
The room will sway a little, and a haze 

Cloy eyesight— soulsight, even — for a space : 
And tears — yes ; and the ache here in the throat, 

To know that I so ill deserve the place 
Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 

Again is hidden in the old embrace. 



72 ART AND LOVE 



ART AND LOVE 

HE faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken 
Pierces the crust of this existence through) 
And smiled beyond on that his genius knew 

Ere mated with his being. Conscious then 

Of his high theme alone, he smiled again 
Straight back upon himself in many a hue 
And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew 

Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when 
First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear. 

So wrought he, witless that behind him leant 
A woman, with old features, dim and sere, 
And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear, 

And with a voice, like some sad instrument, 
That sighing said, " I'm dead there ; love me here ! 



IN DIALECT 



(73) 



GRIGGSBY'S STATION 75 



GRIGGSBY'S STATION 

PAP'S got his patent-right, and rich as all creation ; 
But where's the peace and comfort that we all had be- 
fore? 

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station- 
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 

The likes of us a-livin' here ! It's jest a mortal pity 
To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the 
stairs, 
And the pump right in the kitchen ! And the city ! city ! 
city !— 
And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres ! 

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, 
And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree ! 

And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, 
And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and 
see! 

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station — 
Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, 

And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation- 
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 



76 GRIGGSBY'S STATION 

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin', 
A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday 
through ; 
And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and 
pilin' 
Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do ! 

I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; 
And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired 
hand, 
And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a- 
takin', 
Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his 
land. 

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station- 
Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' anymore, 

Shet away safe in the woods around the old location — 
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 

I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', 
And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and 
gone, 
And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's grow- 
in', 
And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' 
on. 



GRIGGSBY'S STATION 77 

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty, 
Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried — for 

His own sake and Katy's, — and I want to cry with Katy 
As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War. 

What's in all this grand life and high situation, 
And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door? — 

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station — 
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 



78 KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE 



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE 

I 

TELL you what I like the best— 
'Long about knee-deep in June, 

'Bout the time strawberries melts 
On the vine, — some afternoon 
Like to jes' git out and rest, 

And not work at nothin' else ! 

II 

Orchard's where I'd ruther be — 
Need n't fence it in fer me !— 

Jes' the whole sky overhead, 
And the whole airth underneath — 
Sorto' so's a man kin breathe 

Like he ort, and kindo' has 
Elbow-room to keerlessly 

Sprawl out len'thways on the grass 
Where the shadders thick and soft 

As the kivvers on the bed 
Mother fixes in the loft 
Alius, when they's company ! 



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE 79 

III 
Jes' a-sorto' lazein' there — 
S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer 
Through the wavin' leaves above, 
Like a feller 'ats in love 
And don't know it, ner don't keer ! 
Ever'thing you hear and see 
Got some sort o' interest — 
Maybe find a bluebird's nest 
Tucked up there conveenently 
Fer the boys 'at's apt to be 
Up some other apple-tree ! 
Watch the swallers skootin' past 
'Bout as peert as you could ast; 
Er the Bobwhite raise and whiz 
Where some other's whistle is. 

IV 
Ketch a shadder down below, 
And look up to find the crow ; 
Er a hawk away up there, 
'Pearantly froze in the air !— 

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat 

Over ever' chick she's got, 
Suddent-like !— And she knows where 

That-air hawk is, well as you !— 

You jes' bet yer life she do !— 



80 KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE 

Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, 
Waitin' till he makes a pass ! 

V 
Pee-wees' singin', to express 

My opinion, 's second class, 
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less ; 

Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, 
Weedin' out the lonesomeness ; 
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, 

In them base-ball clothes o' his, 
Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' 
Like he owned the premises ! 

Sun out in the fields kin sizz, 
But flat on yer back, I guess, 

In the shade's where glory is ! 
That's jes' what I'd like to do 
Stiddy fer a year er two ! 

VI 
Plague ! ef they aint sompin' in 
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in 
My convictions !— 'long about 
Here in June especially!— 
Under some old apple tree, 
Jes' a-restin' through and through. 
I could git along without 



KNEE- DEEP IN JUNE 81 

Nothin' else at all to do 

Only jes' a-wishin' you 
Was a-gittin' there like me, 
And June was eternity ! 

VII 
Lay out there and try to see 
Jes' how lazy you kin be ! — 

Tumble round and souse yer head 
In the clover-bloom, er pull 

Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes 
And peek through it at the skies, 
Thinkin' of old chums 'ats dead, 
Maybe, smilin' back at you 
In betwixt the beautiful 

Clouds o' gold and white and blue !— 
Month a man kin railly love- 
June, you know, I'm talkin' of! 

VIII 
March aint never nothin' new !— 
Aprile's altogether too 
Brash fer me ! and May — I jes' 
'Bominate its promises, — 
Little hints o' sunshine and 
Green around the timber-land— 



82 KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE 

A few blossoms, and a few 
Chip-birds, and a sprout ertwo— 
Drap asleep, and it turns in 
'Fore daylight and snows agin !— 
But when June comes— Clear my throat 

With wild honey ! Rench my hair 
In the dew ! and hold my coat ! 

Whoop out loud ! and throw my hat !- 

June wants me, and I'm to spare ! 

Spread them shadders anywhere, 

I'll git down and waller there, 
And obleeged to you at that ! 



WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK 83 



WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK 

A THING 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet 
Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: 
The slow hearse and the hosses— slow enough, to say the 

least, 
Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased ! 
The low scrunch of the gravel— and the slow grind of the 

wheels, — 
The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels ! 
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash 

crack 
A quickstep fer the hosses, 

When the 

Hearse 

Comes 

Back! 

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer 

eyes — 
But ef the plumes dont fetch you, it'll ketch you other- 
wise — 
You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away 
And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day ! 
Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest — 
Yer tears won't thaw them hands 0' his 'at's froze acrost 
his breast ! 



84 WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK 

And this is why— when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred 

and black — 
I like the flash and hurry 
When the 

Hearse 

Comes 

Back! 

It's not 'cause I don't 'predate it ain't no time fer jokes, 
Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks;— 
I've went to funerals myse'f, and took on some, perhaps, 
Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's,— 
I've buried father, mother— But I'll haf to jes' gxtyou 
To "excuse »w," as the feller says. — The p'int I'm driv- 

in' to 
Is, simply, when we're plum' broke down and all knocked 

out a'whack, 
It he'ps to shape us up, like, 
When the 

Hearse 

Comes 

Back! 

The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in 

woe, 
When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine, don't 

you know ! 



IVHEhl THE HEARSE COMES BACK 85 

When evenin' strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the 

bars, 
And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy 

stars. 
And so when mv time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 
'At wants expressed my last request — I'll, mebby, rick- 

ommend 
To drive slow, if they haf to, goin' 'long the oufard track, 
But I'll smile and say, " You speed 'em 
When the 

Hearse 

Comes 

Back!" 



86 A CANARY AT THE FARM 

A CANARY AT THE FARM 

FOLKS has ben to town, and Sahry 
Fetched 'er home a pet canary,— 
And of all the blame', contrary, 

Aggervatin' things alive! 
I love music— that's I love it 
When its free— and plenty of it;— 
But I kindo' git above it, 

At a dollar-eighty-five ! 

Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin', — 
Jes' the idy, now, o' layin' 
Out yer money, and a-payin' 

Fer a wilier-cage and bird, 
When the medder-larks is wingin' 
Round you, and the woods is ringin' 
With the beautifullest singin' 

That a mortal ever heard ! 

Sahry 's sot, tho'.— So 1 tell her 

He's a purty little feller, 

With his wings o' creamy-yeller, 

And his eyes keen as a cat ; 
And the twitter o' the critter 
'Pears to absolutely glitter ! 
Guess I'll haf to go and git her 

A high-priceter cage 'n that ! 



A LIZ-TOWN HUMORIST 87 



A LIZ-TOWN HUMORIST 

SETTIN' round the stove, last night, 

Down at Wess's store, was me 

And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White, 

And Doc Bills, and two er three 

Fellers of the Mudsock tribe 

No use tryin' to describe ! 

And says Doc, he says, says he, — 

Talkin' 'bout good things to eat, 

Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat! " 

I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed 
Wortermillon beat the mush. — 
' Red," he says, "and juicy— Hush !— 
I'll jes' leave it to the crowd ! " 
Then a Mudsock chap, says he, — 
Punkin's good enough fer me — 
Punkin pies, I mean," he says, — 
Them beats millons ! What say, Wess? ' 



I chawed on. And Wess says,—" Well, 
You jes' fetch that wife of mine 
All yer wortermillon-rm^, 
And she'll bile it down a spell- 
In with sorgum, I suppose, 
And what else, Lord only knows ! 



88 A LIZ-TOIVN HUMORIST 

But I'm here to tell all hands 

Them p'serves meets my demands ! " 

I chawed on. And White he says, — 
"Well, I'll jes' stand in with Wess— 
I'm no hog!" And Tunk says,— " I 
Guess I'll pastur' out on pie 
With the Mudsock boys ! " says he ; 
" Now what's yourn ? " he says to me : 
I chawed on— fer— quite a spell- 
Then I speaks up, slow and dry,— 
"Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I.— 
And you'd orto' heerd 'em yell! 



KINGRY'S MILL 



KINGRY'S MILL 

ON old Brandywine — about 
Where White's Lots is now laid out, 
And the old crick narries down 
To the ditch that splits the town, — 
Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see 
Where the old dam ust to be ; 
Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass 
Where the old race ust to pass ! 

That's ben forty years ago — 
Forty years o' frost and snow- 
Forty years o' shade and shine 
Sence them boyhood-days o' mine !— 
All the old landmarks o' town 
Changed about, er rotted down ! 
Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still? 
Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill? 

Don't seem furder back, to me, 

I'll be dogg'd ! than yisterdy, 

Sence us fellers, in bare feet 

And straw hats, went through the wheat, 

Cuttin' crost the shortest shoot 

Fer that-air old ellum-root 

Jest above the mill-dam — where 

The blame' cars now crosses there! 



go KINGRY'S MILL 



Through the willers down the crick 
We could see the old mill stick 
Its red gable up, as if 
It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff ! 
See the winders in the sun 
Blink like they was wonderun' 
What the miller ort to do 
With sich boys as me and you ! 

But old Kingry !— who could fear 
That old chap, with all his cheer? — 
Leanin' at the winder-sill, 
Er the half-door o' the mill, 
Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun 
'N jigglin' like his hoppers done, 
Laughin' grists o' gold and red 
Right out o' the wagon-bed ! 

What did HE keer where we went? — 
1 Jest keep out o' devilment, 
And don't fool around the belts, 
Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else 
'Bout the blame machinery, 
And that's all I ast! " says-ee. 
Then we'd climb the stairs, and play 
In the bran-bins half the day ! 



KINGRY'S MILL 91 



Rickollect the dusty wall. 
And the spider-webs, and all ! 
Rickollect the trimblin' spout 
Where the meal come josslin' out — 
Stand and comb yer fingers through 
The fool-truck an hour er two- 
Felt so sort 0' warm-like and 
Soothin' to a feller's hand ! 

Climb, high up above the stream, 
And " coon " out the wobbly beam 
And peek down from out the lof 
Where the weatherboards was off — 
Gee-mun-«^ ! w'y> it takes grit 
Even jest to think of it! — 
Lookin' 'way down there below 
On the worter roarin' so ! 

Rickollect the flume, and wheel, 
And the worter slosh and reel 
And jest ravel out in froth 
Flossier'n satin cloth ! 
Rickollect them paddles jest 
Knock the bubbles galley-west, 
And plunge under, and come up, 
Drippin' like a worter-pup ! 



92 KINGRY'S MILL 



And, to see them old things gone 
That I onc't was bettin' on, 
In rale pint o' fact, I feel 
Kindo' like that worter- wheel,— 
Sorto' drippy-like and wet 
Round the eyes— but paddlin' yet, 
And, in mem'ry, loafin' still 
Down around old Kingry's Mill ! 



JONEY 93 



JONEY 

HAD a hare-lip— Joney had : 

Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it ; 
Fellers tried to bore him, bad— 
But, ef ever he got mad, 

He kep' still and never showed it. 
'Druther have his mouth, all pouted 

And split up, and like it wuz, 
Than the ones 'at laughed about it. — 

Purty is as purty does ! 

Had to listen ruther clos't 

'Fore you knowed what he wuz givin' 
You ; and yet, without no boast 
Joney he wuz jest' the most 

Entertainin' talker livin' ! 
Take the Scriptur's and run through 'em, 

Might say, like a' auctioneer, 
And 'ud argy and review 'em 

'At wuz beautiful to hear ! 

Hare-lip and inpediment, 

Both wuz bad, and both agin him — 
But the old folks where he went, 
'Peared like, knowin' his intent, 

'Scused his mouth for what wuz in him. 



94 JONEY 



And the childern all loved Joney — 
And he loved 'em back, you bet ! — 

Put their arms around him on'y 

None had ever kissed him yet ! 

In young company, someway, 

Boys 'ud grin at one-another 
On the sly ; and girls 'ud lay 
Low, with nothin' much to say, 

Er leave Joney with their mother. 
Many and many a time he's fetched 'em 

Candy by the paper-sack, 
And turned right around and ketched 'em 

Makin' mouths behind his back ! 

S'prised, sometimes, the slurs he took. — 

Chap said onc't his mouth looked sorter 
Like a fish's mouth 'ud look 
When he'd been jerked off the hook 

And plunked back into the worter.— 
Same durn feller— its su'prisin', 

But it's facts— 'at stood and cherred 
From the bank that big babtizin' 

'Pike-bridge accident occurred !— 

Cherred fer Joney while he give 
Life to little childern drowndin' ! 



JONEY 95 



Which wuz fittenest to live — 
Him 'at cherred, er him 'at div' 

And saved thirteen lives? . . . They 
found one 
Body, three days later, floated 

Down the by-o, eight mile' south, 
All so colored-up and bloated — 

On'y knowed him by his mouth ! 

Had a hare-lip — Joney had — 

Folks 'at filed apast all knowed it— 
Them 'at ust to smile looked sad, 
But ef HE thought good er bad, 

He kep' still and never showed it. 
'Druther have that mouth, all pouted 

And split up, and like it wuz, 
Than the ones 'at laughed about it. 

Purty is as purty does ! 



96 NOTHIN' TO SAY 



NOTHIN' TO SAY 

NOTHIN* to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say !— 
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way ! 
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me— 
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother— where 
is she ? 

You look lots like yer mother : Purty much same in size ; 
And about the same complected ; and favor about the 

eyes : 
Like her, too, about livid here, — because she couldn't 

stay: 
It'll 'most seem like you was dead— like her !— but I hain't 

got nothin' to say ! 

She left you her little Bible — writ yer name acrost the 

page— 
And left her ear-bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. 
I've alius kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' 

away — 
Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say ! 

You don't rikollect her, I reckon ? No ; you wasn't a year 
old then ! 

And now yer— how old air you? W'y, child, not "twen- 
ty!" When? 



NOTHIN' TO SAY 97 



And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git 

married that day ? 
.... I wisht yer mother was livin' !— but— I hain't got 

nothin' to say ! 

Twenty year ! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found ! 
There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there— I'll bresh it 

off — turn round. 
(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away !) 
Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say ! 



LIKE HIS MOTHER USED TO MAKE 



LIKE HIS MOTHER USED TO MAKE 

" UNCLE JAKE'S PLACE," ST. JO, MO., 1874 

" I WAS born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim, 
As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him, 
And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pie 
And a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye, — 
" I was born in Indiany— more'n forty year' ago— 
And I hain't ben back in twenty— and I'm workin' back- 

'ards slow ; 
But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee, 
And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to 

me ! 

" Pour us out another, Daddy," says the feller, warmin' 

up, 
A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as Uncle tuck his cup,— 
" When I seed yer sign out yander," he went on, to Un- 
cle Jake,— 
11 'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to 

make' — 
I thought of my old mother, and the Posey county farm, 
And me a little kid agin, a-hangin' in her arm, 
As she set the pot a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em 

in"— 
And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin : 



LIKE HIS MOTHER USED TO MAKE 99 

And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and 

stood 
As solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would ; 
Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door— 

and nex', 
Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her 

specs— 
And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, " It's 

him ! — 
Thank God we've met him comin' !— Don't you know yer 

mother, Jim?" 
And the feller, as he grabbed her, says,—" You bet I hain't 

forgot— 
But," wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty 

hot!" 



THE TRAIN-M1SSER 



THE TRAIN-MISSER 

AT UNION DEPOT 

'LL WHERE in the world my eyes has bin— 
Ef I haint missed that train agin ! 
Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring ! 
But blast and blister the dasted train ! — 
How it does it 1 can't explain ! 
Git here thirty-five minutes before 
The dern thing's due !— and, drat the thing ! 
It'll manage to git past — shore ! 

The more I travel around, the more 

I got no sense! — To stand right here 

And let it beat me ! 'LI ding my melts ! 

I got no gumption, ner nothin' else ! 

Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore !— 

Sell you a ticket's all they keer !— 

Ticket Agents ort to all be 

Prosecuted— and that's jes' what !— 

How'd I know which train's fer me? 

And how'd I know which train was not?— 

Goern and comin' and gone astray, 

And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way ! 



THE TRAIN-MISSER 101 

Ef I could jes' sneak round behind 
Myse'f, where I could git full swing, 
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing ! 
Till I jes' got jerked up and fined ! — 
Fer here I stood, as a dern fool's apt 
To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo 
Right apast me — and mouth jes' gapped 
Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two ! 



GRANNY 



GRANNY 

GRANNY'S come to our house, 

And ho ! my lawzy-daisy ! 
All the childern round the place 

Is ist a-runnin' crazy ! 
Fetched a cake fer little Jake, 

And fetched a pie fer Nanny, 
And fetched a pear fer all the pack 

That runs to kiss their Granny! 

Lucy Ellen's in her lap, 

And Wade, and Silas Walker, 
Both's a-ridin' on her foot, 

And 'Polios on the rocker ; 
And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marin's, 

And little orphant Anny, 
All's a-eatin' gingerbread 

And giggle-un at Granny ! 

Tells us all the fairy tales 
Ever thought er wundered — 

And 'bundance o' other stories- 
Bet she knows a hunderd ! — 

Bob's the one fer " Whittington," 
And " Golden Locks" fer Fanny! 

Hear 'em laugh and clap ther hands, 
Listenin' at Granny ! 



GRANNY 103 



'Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good- 

And " Bean-stalk" 's another- 
So's the one of "Cinderell' " 

And her old godmother ;— 
That-un's best of all the rest — 

Bestest one of any,— 
Where the mices scampers home 

Like we runs to Granny ! 

Granny's come to our house, 

Ho ! my lawzy-daisy ! 
All the childern round the place 

Is ist a-runnin' crazy! 
Fetched a cake fer little Jake, 

And fetched a pie fer Nanny, 
And fetched a pear fer all the pack 

That runs to kiss ther Granny ! 



io4 OLD OCTOBER 



OLD OCTOBER 

OLD OCTOBER'S purt' nigh gone, 
And the frosts is comin' on 
Little heavier every day — 
Like our hearts is thataway ! 
Leaves is changin' overhead 
Back from green to gray and red, 
Brown, and yeller, with their stems 
Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms; 
And the balance of the trees 
Gittin' balder every breeze — 
Like the heads we're scratchin' on ! 
Old October's purt' nigh gone. 

I love Old October so, 
I can't bear to see her go — 
Seems to me like losin' some 
Old-home relative er chum — 
'Pears like sorto' settin' by 
Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh 
Was a-passin' out o' sight 
Into everlastin' night! 
Hickernuts a feller hears 
Rattlin' down is more like tears 
Drappin' on the leaves below — 
I love Old October so ! 



OLD OCTOBER 105 



Can't tell what it is about 
Old October knocks me out I— 
I sleep well enough at night — 
And the blamedest appetite 
Ever mortal man possessed, — 
Last thing et, it tastes the best !— 
Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws, 
lies and limbers up my jaws 
Fer raal service, sich as new 
Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too. — 
Yit, fer all, they's somepin' 'bout 
Old October knocks me out! 



io6 JIM 



JIM 



HE was jes' a plain, ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour., 

Consumpted-lookin'— but la! 
The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laugh- 
in'est, jolliest 
Feller you ever saw ! 
Worked at jes' coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine 
enough in his talk, 
And his feelin's too ! 
Lordy! ef he was on'y back on his bench agin to-day, 
a-carryin' on 
Like he ust to do ! 

Any shop-mate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt, 

A better feller 'n Jim ! 
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else— 

You could git it o' him! 
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess ! 

Give up ever' nickel he's worth— 
And, ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it 
was his, 

He'd a-give you the earth ! 

Alius a-reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'pin' some 

Pore feller onto his feet— 
He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f, 

So's the feller got somepin' to eat ! 






JIM 107 

Didn't make no difference at all to him how he was dressed, 

He ust to say to me,— 
" You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, 
a-huntin' a job, 

And he'll git along ! " says he. 

Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead so overly much 

O' this world's goods at a time.— 
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and 
haf to, more'n likely, 

Turn round and borry a dime ! 
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer a while— then 
jerk his coat, 

And kindo' square his chin, 
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench, 

And go to peggin' agin ! 

Patientest feller, too, I reckon', at ever jes' naturely 

Coughed hisse'f to death ! 
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whis- 
per and say 

He could git ever'thing but his breath — 
" You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say, 

" Is a-pilin' onto me 
A mighty big debt for that-air little weak-chested ghost 
0' mine to pack 

Through all Eternity ! " 



108 JIM 

Now there was a man 'at jes' 'peared like, to me, 

'At ortn't a-never a-died ! 
" But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said, 

"On'y to Jim! "and cried: 
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the 
shop— 

Er the whole blame neighberhood, — 
He says, " When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do 
anything else that day 

But jes' set around and feel good ! " 



A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 109 



A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 

OH ! TELL ME a tale of the airly days— 

Of the times as they ust to be ; 
Piller of Fire," and " Shakspeare's Plays," 

Is a 'most too deep fer me ! 
I want plain facts, and I want plain words, 

Of the good old-fashioned ways, 
When speech run free as the songs of birds — 

'Way back in the airly days. 

Tell me a tale of the timber-lands, 

And the old-time pioneers — 
Somepin' a pore man understands 

With his feelin's, well as ears : 
Tell of the old log house,— about 

The loft, and the puncheon floor — 
The old fire-place, with the crane swung out, 

And the latch-string through the door. 

Tell of the things jest like they wuz— 

They don't need no excuse! 
Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does, 

Till they're all too fine fer use ! 
Say they wuz 'leven in the family — 

Two beds and the chist below, 
And the trundle-beds 'at each helt three ; 

And the clock and the old bureau. 



io A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 

Then blow the horn at the old back door 

Till the echoes all halloo, 
And the childern gethers home onc't more, 

Jest as they ust to do ; 
Blow fer Pap till he hears and comes, 

With Tomps and Elias, too, 
A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums, 

And the old Red White and Blue ! 

Blow and blow— till the sound draps low 

As the moan of the whipperwill, 
And wake up Mother, and Ruth, and Jo, 

All sleepin' at Bethel Hill ; 
Blow and call till the faces all 

Shine out in the back-log's blaze, 
And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall, 

As they did in the airly days. 



TO ROBERT BURNS 



TO ROBERT BURNS 

SWEET SINGER, that I loe the maist 

O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste 

I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste 

O' hinnied sang, 
I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist 

In Heaven lang! 

For, weel I ken, nae cantie phrase, 
Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways, 
Could gar me freer blame, or praise, 

Or proffer hand, 
Where " Rantin' Robbie" and his lays 

Thegither stand. 

And sae these namely lines I send, 
Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end, 
In echo o' the sangs that wend 

Frae thee to me 
Like simmer-brooks, wi' mony a bend 

O' wimplin' glee. 

In fancy, as wi' dewy een, 

I part the clouds aboon the scene 

Where thou wast born, and peer atween, 

I see nae spot 
In a' the Hielands half sae green 

And unforgot ! 



12 TO ROBERT BURNS 

I see nae storied castle-hall, 

Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall, 

And serf and page in ready call, 

Sae grand to me 
As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all 

Its poverty. 

There where the simple daisy grew 
Sae bonnie sweet, and modest, too, 
Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu' 

O' sic a grace, 
It aye is weepin' tears o' dew 

Wi' droopit face. 

Frae where the heather bluebells fling 
Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring, 
To where the lavrock soars to sing, 

Still lives thy strain, 
For a' the birds are twittering 

Sangs like thine ain. 

And aye, by light o' sun or moon, 
By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon, 
The waters lilt nae tender tune 

But sweeter seems 
Because they poured their limpid rune 

Through a' thy dreams. 



TO ROBERT BURNS 113 

Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee, 
Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee, 
Yet had nae niggart sympathy 

Where Sorrow bowed, 
But gavest a' thy tears as free 

As a' thy gowd. 

And sae it is we loe thy name 
To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame, 
That a' pretentious stars 0' fame 

Maun blink asklent, 
To see how simple worth may shame 

Their brightest glent. 



ii4 A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS' S 



A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

I 

THE HIRED MAN TALKS 

THERE'S old man Willards ; an' his wife ; 
An' Marg'et— S'repty's sister ;— an' 
There's me— an' I'm the hired man ; 

An' Tomps McClure, you bet yer life ! 

Well, now, old Willards haint so bad, 

Considerin' the chance he's had. 

Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eats 
Whenever he's a mind to : Takes 

An' leans back in the Amen-seats 
An' thanks the Lord fer all he makes- 

That's purty much all folks has got 

Ag'inst the old man, like as not ! 

But there's his woman— jes' the turn 

Of them-air two wild girls o' hern— 
Marg'et an' S'repty— alius in 

Fer any cuttin'-up concern- 
Church festibals, an' foolishin' 

Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees- 
Set up to watch the Old Year go 

An' New Year come — sich things as these ; 
An' turkey-dinners, don't you know ! 



A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT IVILLARDS'S 115 



S'repty's younger, an' more gay, 

An' purtier, an' finer dressed 
Than Marg'et is— but lawzy-day ! 
She haint the independentest !— 
Take care! " old Willards used to say, 
Take care ! Let Marg'et have her way, 
An' S'repty, you go off an' play 
On your melodeum ! " — But best 

Of all comes Tomps ! An' I'll be bound, 
Ef he haint jes' the beatin'est 
Young chap in all the country round ! 

Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore ! 
They haint no man on top 0' ground 
Walks into my affections more!— 
An' all the Settlement'll say 
That Tomps was liked jes' thataway 
By ever'body, till he tuck 

A shine to S'repty Willards.— Then 
You'd orto' see the old man " buck," 
An' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt, 

An' hint that common workin'-men 
That didn't want their feelin's hurt, 

Had better hunt fer " comp'ny " where 
The folks was pore an' didn't care ! — 
The pine-blank facts is,— the old man, 
Last Christmas was a year ago, 



n6 A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

Found out some presents Tomps had got 
Fer S'repty, an' hit made him hot- 
Set down an' tuck his pen in hand 
An' writ to Tomps an' told him so 
On legal cap, in white an' black, 
An' give him jes' to understand 
" No Christmas-gifts o' ' lily-white' 
An' bear's-ile could fix matters right," 
An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back ! 
Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled round 

Consid'able. But Marg'et she 
Toed out another sock, an' wound 
Her knittin' up an' drawed the tea, 
An' then set on the supper-things, 
An' went up in the loft an' dressed— 
An' through it all you'd never guessed 

What she was up to ! An' she brings 
Her best hat with her an' her shawl, 
An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all, 
An' injirubbers, an' comes down 
An' tells 'em she's a-goin' to town 
To he'p the Christmas goin's-on 
Her church got up. An' go she does — 
The best hosswoman ever was ! 
"An' what'll WE do while you're gone?" 
The old man says, a-tryin' to be 
Agreeable. "Oh ! you?" says she,— 



A NEIV YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

"You kin jaw S'repty, like you did, 
An' slander Tomps ! " An' off she rid ! 

Now, this is all I'm goin' to tell 
Of this here story— that is, I 
Have done my very level best 
As fer as this, an' here I " dwell, " 
As auctioneers says, winkin' sly: 
Hits old man Willards tells the rest. 

II 

THE OLD MAN TALKS 

Adzackly jes' one year ago, 

This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me— 
In my own house, an' while the folks 
Was gittin' dinner, — an' he pokes 

His nose right in, an' says, says he : 
4 1 got yer note — an' read it slow! 

You don't like me, ner I don't^ow," 
He says, — "we 're even there, you know! 

But you've said, furder, that no gal 

Of yourn kin marry me, er shall, 

An' I'd best shet off comin', too ! " 
An' then he says,—" Well them's YOUR views, 

But, havin' talked with S'repty, we 

Have both agreed to disagree 

With your peculiar notions some, 
An' that's the reason I refuse 



u8 A NEIV YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

To quit a-comin' here, but come- 
Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer, 
An' spile yer turkey-dinner here,— 
But, jes' fer SWepty's sake, to sheer 
Yer New Years. Shall I take a cheer? " 

Well, blame-don ! ef I ever see 
Sich impidence ! I couldn't say 

Not nary word ! But Mother she 
Sot out a cheer fer Tomps, an' they 

Shuck hands an' turned their back on me. 

Then I riz — mad as mad could be — 
But Marg'et says,— 4 ' Now, Pap ! you set 
Right where you're settin'! Don't you fret! 

An' Tomps, you warm yer feet ! " says she, 

"An' throw yer mitts an' comfort' on 
The bed there ! Where is S'repty gone?— 
The cabbage is a-scortchin' ! Ma, 
Stop cryin' there an' stir the slaw ! " 

Well ! — what was Mother cryiri fer ? — 
I half riz up— but Marg'et's chin 
Hit squared— an* I set down agin — 

I alius was afeared o' her, 

I was, by jucks ! So there I set, 

Betwixt a sinkin'-chill an' sweat, 

An' scuffled with my wrath, an' shet 

My teeth to mighty tight, you bet ! 



A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S no 

An' yit, fer all that I could do, 
I eeched to jes' git up an' whet 

The carvin'-knife a rasp er two 

On Tomps's ribs — an' so would you !— 
Fer he had riz an' faced around, 

An' stood there, smilin', as they brung 
The turkey in, all stuffed an' browned — 

Too sweet fer nose er tooth er tongue ! 
With sniffs 0' sage, an' p'raps a dash 

Of old burnt brandy, steamin' hot, 
Mixed kind 0' in with apple-mash, 

An' mince-meat, an' the Lord knows what! 
Nobody was a-talkin 5 then, 

To 'filiate my awk'ardness — 

No noise 0' any kind but jes' 
The rattle 0' the dishes when 
They'd fetch 'em in an 5 set 'em down, 
An' fix aa' change 'em round an' round, 

Like women does — Till mother says,— 
" Vittels is ready ; Abner, call 

Down S'repty — she's up-stairs, I guess." — 
And Marg'et she says, " Ef you bawl 
Like that, she'll not come down at all ! 
Besides, we needn't wait till she 
Gits down ! Here, Tomps, set down by me, 

An' Pap : say grace ! " Well, there I was ! 



120 A NEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

What could I do ! I drapped my head 
Behind my fists an' groaned, an' said : — 
" Indulgent Parent! in Thy cause 

We bow the head an' bend the knee, 
An' break the bread, an' pour the wine, 
Feelin' " — (The stair-door suddently 
Went bang! an' S'repty flounced by me) — 
" Feelin'," I says, "this feast is Thine— 

This New Year's feast" — An' rap-rap-rap ! 
Went Marg'et's case-knife on her plate — 
An' next, I heerd a sasser drap, — 
Then I looked up, an' strange to state, 
There S'repty set in Tomps's lap— 

An' huggin' him, as shore as fate ! 
An' mother kissin' him k-slap !— 
An' Marg'et — she chips in to drap 

The ruther peert remark to me : — 
" That ' grace ' o' yourn," she says, " wont ' gee '— 
This haint no 'New Year' s feast J " says she,— 
"This is a? INF AIR Dinner, Pap! " 

An' so it was! — ben married fer 
Purt'nigh a week !— 'Twas Marg'et planned 

The whole thing fer 'em, through an' through. 
I'm reconciled; an', understand, 
I take things jes' as they occur,— 

Ef Marg'et liked Tomps, Tomps 'ud do !— 



A KEW YEAR'S TIME AT WILLARDS'S 

But I-says-I, a-holt his hand, — 
" I'm glad you didn't marry HER — 
'Cause Marg'et's my guardeen — Yes, sir! — 
An' S'repty's good enough fer you ! " 



122 THE TOWn KARNTEEL 



THE TOWN KARNTEEL 

THE town Karnteel !— It's who'll reveal 

Its praises jushtifiable? 
For who can sing av anything 

So lovely and reliable ? 
Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter lies 

From Malin's Head to Tipperary, 
There's no such town for interprise 

Bechuxt Youghal and Londonderry ! 

There's not its likes in Ireland— 

For twic't the week, be-gorries ! 
They're playing jigs upon the band — 
And joomping there in sacks — and — and- 
And racing, wid wheel-borries ! 

Karnteel — its there, like any fair, 

The purty gurrls is plinty, sure !— 
And, man-alive ! at forty-five 

The legs av me air twinty, sure ! 
I lave me cares, and hoein', too, 

Behint me, as is sinsible, 
And its Karnteel I'm goin' to, 

To cilebrate in principle ! 



THE TOIVN KARNTEEL 123 

For there's the town av all the land ! 

And twic't the week, be-gorries ! 
They're playing jigs upon the band, 
And joomping there in sacks — and— and— 

And racing, wid wheel-borries ! 

And whilst I feel for owld Karnteel 

That I've no phrases glorious, 
It stands above the need av love 

That boasts in voice uproarious ! — 
Lave that for Cork, and Dublin, too, 

And Armagh and Killarney, thin, — 
And Karnteel won't be troublin' you 

Wid any jilous blarney, thin ! 

For there's the town av all the land 

Where twic't the week, be-gorries ! 
They're playing jigs upon the band — 
And joomping there in sacks— and— and— 

And racing, wid wheel-borries ! 



124 REG A RDM TERRY HUT 



REGARDIN' TERRY HUT 

SENCE I tuck holt o' Gibbses Churn 

And ben a-handlin' the concern, 

I've traveled round the grand old State 

Of Indiany lots, of late! 

I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweat 

Around the town of Lafayette ; 

I've saw a many a County-seat 

I ust to think was hard to beat : 

At constant dreenage and expense 

I've worked Greencastle and Vincennes— 

Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay, 

Owen, and on down thataway 

Plum' into Knox, on the back-track 

Fer home agin — and glad I'm back !— 

I've saw these towns, as I say— but 

They's none 'at beats ole Terry Hut ! 

It's more'n likely you'll insist 
I claim this 'cause I'm predjudist, 
Bein' born'd here in ole Vygo 
In sight o' Terry Hut;— but no, 
Yer clean dead wrong !— and I maintain 
They's nary drap in ary vein 
O' mine but what's as free as air 
To jest take issue with you there !— 



REGARDS TERRY HUT 125 

'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year, 
I've argied agtnst livin' here, 
And jawed around and traded lies 
About our lack 0' enterprise ; 
And tuck and turned in and agreed 
All other towns was in the lead, 
When — drat my melts ! — they couldn't cut 
No shine a-tall with Terry Hut ! 

Take, even, statesmanship, and wit, 

And ginerel git-up-and-git, 

Ole Terry Hut is sound clean through ! — 

Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er Dan 

Vorehees — and where's they any man 

Kin even hold a candle to 

Their eloquence? And where's as clean 

A fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen— 

Er puorer, in his daily walk, 

In railroad er in racein' stock ! 

And there's 'Gene Debs — a man 'at stands 

And jest holds out in his two hands 

As warm a heart as ever beat 

Betwixt here and the Jedgement Seat !— 

All these is reasons why I put 

Sich bulk 0' faith in Terry Hut. 

So I've come back, with eyes 'at sees 
My faults, at last,— to make my peace 



126 REGARDIhT TERRY HUT 

With this old place, and truthful swear- 
Like Gineral Tom Nelson does,— 

" They haint no city anywhere 
On God's green earth lays over us ! " 
Our city govament is grand— 

" Ner is they better farmin'-land 
Sun-kissed "—as Tom goes on and says— 

" Er dower'd with sich advantages ! " 
And I've come back, with welcome tread, 
From journeyin's vain, as I have said, 
To settle down in ca'm content, 
And cuss the towns where I have went, 
And brag on ourn and boast and strut 
Around the streets o' Terry Hut! 



LEEDLE DUTCH BABY 127 



LEEDLE DUTCH BABY 

LEEDLE Dutch baby haff come ter town ! 
Jabber und jump till der day gone down — 
Jabber und sphlutter und sphlit hees jaws- 
Vot a Dutch baby dees Launsmon vas ! 
I dink dose mout' vas leedle too vide 
Ober he laugh fon dot also-side! 
Haff got blenty off deemple und vrown — 
Hey ! leedle Dutchman, come ter town ! 

Leedle Dutch baby, I dink me proud 
Ober your fader can schquall dot loud 
Ven he vas leedle Dutch baby like you, 
Und yoost don't gare like he alvays do ! — 
Guess ven dey vean him on beer, you bet 
Dot's der because dot he aind veaned yet!- 
Vot you said off he drink you down ? 
Hey ! leedle Dutchman, come ter town ! 

Leedle Dutch baby, yoost schquall avay — 
Schquall fon preakfast till gisterday ! 
Better you all time gry und shout 
Dan shmile me vonce fon der coffin out ! 
Vot I gare off you keek my nose 
Downside-up mit your heels unt toes — 
Downside, oder der upside down. — 
Hey ! leedle Dutchman, come ter town ! 



128 DOWN ON WRIGGLE CRICK 

DOWN ON WRIGGLE CRICK 

Best Time to Kill a Hog 's when He 's Fat.— Old Saw. 

MOSTLY, folks is law abidin' 

Down on Wriggle Crick,— 
Seein' they's no 'Squire residin* 

In our bailywick ; 
No grand-juries — no suppeenies, 

Ner no vested rights to pick 
Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef 

He's outragin' Wriggle Crick ! 

Wriggle Crick haint got no lawin', 

Ner no suits to beat ; 
Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin' 

Like a county-seat ; 
Haint no waitin' round fer verdicks, 

Ner non-gittin' witness-fees : 
Ner no thiefs 'at gits " new hearin's," 

By some lawyer slick as grease ! 

Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit 

Is old Johnts Culwell, — 
Keeps postoffice, and right near it 

Owns what's called " The Grand Hotel " 
(Warehouse now) — buys wheat and ships it 
Gits out ties, and trades in stock, 



DOWN ON WRIGGLE CRICK 129 

And knows all the high-toned drummers 
'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk. 

Last year comes along a feller — 

Sharper 'an a lance, — 
Stovepipe-hat, and silk umbreller, 

And a boughten all-wool pants, — 
Tinkerin' of clocks and watches ; 

Says a trial's all he wants — 
And rents out the tavern-office 

Next to uncle Johnts. 

Well.— He tacked up his k'dentials, 

And got down to biz.— 
Captured Johnts by cuttin' stencils 

Fer them old wheat-sacks 0' his. — 
Fixed his clock, in the postoffice— 

Painted fer him, clean and slick, 
'Crost his safe in gold-leaf letters, 
"J. Cullwells's, Wriggle Crick." 

Any kind 0' job you keered to 

Resk him with, and bring, 
He'd fix fer you— jest appeared to 

Turn his hand to anything! — 
Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers — 

Glue a cheer, er chany doll, — 
W'y, of all the beatin' fellers, 

He jest beat 'em all ! 



130 DOWN ON WRIGGLE CRICK 

Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there,- 

One mistake he learnt, 
That was, sleepin' in his shop there.— 

And one Sunday night it burnt! 
Come in one o' jest a-sweepin' 

All the whole town high and dry— 
And that feller, when they waked him, 

Suffocatin', mighty nigh ! 

Johnts he drug him from the buildin', 

Helpless— 'peared to be,— 
And the women and the childern 

Drenchin' him with sympathy ! 
But I noticed Johnts helt on him 

With a' extry lovin' grip, 
And the men-folks gethered round him 

In most warmest pardnership ! 

That's the whole mess, grease and dopin' ! 

Johnts's safe was saved, — 
But the lock was found sprung open, 

And the inside caved. 
Was no trial — ner no jury — 

Ner no jedge ner court-house-click.— 
Circumstances alters cases 

Down on Wriggle Crick ! 



IVHEN DE FOLKS IS GONE 131 



WHEN DE FOLKS IS GONE 

WHAT dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'? 

Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo' ! 

Tell you, Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n, 

Hit's might lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone ! 

Blame my trap ! how de wind do blow! 
An' dis is das' de night for de witches, sho' ! 
Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de old slut whine, 
An' you heah de cat a-spittin' when de moon don't shine ! 

Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go " bang! " 
An' I lef 'er right back whah she alius hang, 
An' de tribble snap short an' de apern split 
When dey no mortal man wah a-techin' hit! 

Dah ! Now, what? How de ole j'ice cracks ! 
'Spec' dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's, 
'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails on 
What das'n't on'y come when de folks is gone ! 

What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos' 
Pop right up by de ole bed-pos' ? 
What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack? .... 
God bress de Lo'd ! hits de folks got back ! 



32 THE LITTLE TOIVN O' TAILHOLT 



THE LITTLE TOWN O' TAILHOLT 

You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth 

and size, 
And brag about yer county-seats, and business enterprise, 
And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery — 
But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me ! 

You can harp about yer churches, with their steeples in 

the clouds, 
And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer 

crowds ; 
You kin talk about yer theaters, and all you've got to 

see — 
But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me ! 

They haint no style in our town— hit's little-like and 

small — 
They haint no churches, nuther, — jes' the meetin'-house 

is all ; 
They's no sidewalks, to speak of — but the highway's 

alius free, 
And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me ! 

Some finds itsdiscommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit, 
To hev but one postoffice, and a womern keepin' hit, 
And the drugstore, and shoeshop, and grocery, all three— 
But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me ! 



THE LITTLE TOWN O 1 TAILHOLT 133 

Vou kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev 

yer fun, 
And laugh and holler " Tail-holts is better holts 'n none !" 
Ef the city suits you better, w'y, hits where you'd orto' be, 
But the little Town 0' Tailholt 's good enough fer me ! 



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IRfcfoarfc to. TOompson 

Personal Recollections 
Washington to Lincoln. 

Including the administrations of sixteen Presidents of 
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Col. Richard W. Thompson has known 
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American Revolution, among them being 
Lafayette. He knew Jefferson sixty-seven 
j^ears ago, and was present at the inaugura- 
tion of Andrew Jackson. He was president 
of the famous Panama Commission, is the 
oldest living member of Congress but one, 
and during the administration of Hayes he 
entered the cabinet as Secretary of the Navy. 
At the close of this long and brilliant career, 
Col. Thompson has given to the world his 
own personal recollections of the Presidents, 
in which he does not refer to documents, but 
draws entirely upon the wonderful resources 
of his memory. It is remarkably full and 
accurate as to the origin and growth of po- 
litical parties. 

Bound in Buckram, gilt top, with numerous 
full page portraits in photogravure. Edition 
de Luxe, 2 vols., buckram, $6; half leather, 
$8; half calf, $9; full leather, $12. 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



IRevv Books of 1FlotC 



W. P. Fishback 



Recollections of Lord Coleridge 

These personal recollections of Coleridge 
have just been issued and will be of great 
interest, both in this country and England. 
Handsomely printed and bound in cloth, 
uncut edges, with photogravure portrait of 
Lord Coleridge, fac-simile letters, etc. Square 
i2mo., cloth, $1.25. 



Sarah T. Bolton 
Songs of a Lifetime 

Contains fifty-three poems by the auther of 
"Paddle Your Own Canoe." Edited by 
Prof. John Clark Ridpath, with an introduc- 
tion by General Lew Wallace and a proem by 
James Whitcomb Riley. i2mo., cloth, $1.25. 



THE BOJVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



IRicbarfc /iDalcolm Jobnston 

Studies ; Literary and Social 

First Series, i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 

Includes the following essays: The School- 
master; The Legal Profession; Belisarius; 
George Eliot's Married People; Louise, Ba- 
ronne de Stael-Holstein; Pre- American Phi- 
losophy; American Philosophy; The Deli- 
cacy of Shakespeare; Shakespeare's Tragic 
Lovers. 



Col. Richard Malcolm Johnston has writ- 
ten much that is brilliant and permanent, but 
he has done nothing better than " Studies, 
Literary and Social," a delightfully clear and 
artistically printed volume that comes from 
the presses of The Bowen-Merrill Company, 
of Indianapolis. It is entertaining, instruc- 
tive and enjoyable throughout, and everyone 
who reads it will be delighted by its charm 
and excellence, and will be impressed by the 
author's wide range of knowledge, and the 
beauty and refinement of his mind. — Balti- 
more American, 



THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



IFnfciana Historical Society 
publications 



The papers mentioned on the preceding 
page are all contained in one large volume of 
559 P a g es > 8vo., cloth, uncut, with continuous 
paging, and complete index. Several of the 
earlier numbers of this volume were destroyed 
by fire, and in order to make it complete, 
these have been reset in the same style as 
the later numbers. The volume is now uni- 
form throughout. The net price is $4.25, 
Sent by express to any address, on receipt of 
the price. 



The publishers are also reprinting the So- 
ciety's proceedings and all publications from 
its organization in 1830 to 1880. These pub- 
lications were originally not uniform in style, 
and those issued in pamphlet form are very 
rare or out of print. Several of them were 
printed only in newspapers. They include 
papers by Pres. Andrew Wylie, John B. Dil- 
lon, Prof. E. T. Cox and others. The volume 
will be uniform in size and binding with the 
one just issued and described in this circular. 
Price, $4.25. Sent by express paid, to any 
address, on receipt of the price by the pub- 
lishers. 



THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



flnfciana Historical Society 
publications 

Pamphlets 

No. i. The Laws and Courts of North- 
west and Indiana Territories. By Daniel 
Waite Howe. 

No. 2. The Life and Services of John B. 
Dillon. By Gen. John Coburn and Judge 
Horace P. Biddle. 

No. 3. The Acquisition of Louisiana. By 
Judge Thomas M. Cooley. 

No. 4. Loughery's Defeat and Pigeon 
Roost Massacre. By Charles Martindale. 

No. 5. A Descriptive Catalogue of the of- 
ficial Publications of the Territory and State 
of Indiana from 1800 to 1890. By Daniel 
Waite Howe. 

No. 6. The Rank of Charles Osborn as an 
Anti-Slavery Pioneer. By George W. Julian. 

No. 7. The Man in History. By John 
Clark Ridpath. 

No. 8. Ouiatanon. By Oscar J. Craig. 

No. 9. Reminiscences of a Journey to In- 
dianapolis in 1836. By C. P. Ferguson. 

Life of Ziba Foote. By Samuel Morrison. 

No. 10. "Old Settlers." By Robert B. 
Duncan. 

No. 11. French Settlements on the Wa- 
bash. By Jacob Piatt Dunn. 

No. 12. Slavery Petitions and Papers. By 
Jacob Piatt Dunn. 

No. 13. History of Early Indianapolis 
Masonry. By Hon. Will E. English. 

8vo. Paper. Price each, net, 50 cts. 



IRfcbarb /l&alcolm Jobnston 

Studies ; Literary and Socia l 

r Second Series, i2mo, cloth, $1.25. Two vol- 
umes, boxed, $2.50. 

Includes the following essays: Edward 
Hyde's Daughter; Benjamin D'Israeli, the 
Jew; A Characteristic of Sir Thomas More; 
A Martyr to Science; Some Heroes of Charles 
Dickens; The Extremity of Satire; Irish Lyr- 
ic Poetry; The Minnesinger and Meister- 
singer; The Audacity of Goethe; King Henry 
VIII; Celebrated and Common Friendship. 



" Studies, Literary and Social," by Richard 
Malcolm Johnston, must needs attract more 
than ordinary attention, if the reader has not, 
in the multitude of books, lost something of 
the contemplative feeling that belonged to 
the time when they were rarer, and, there- 
fore, mere companionable. There is rare 
wit and kindly satire and just appreciation 
of pedagogy in the " Schoolmaster." The 
article on the legal profession is worthy a 
careful study and that on "The Delicacy of 
Shakespeare " should be read and pondered 
over by all lovers of the poet,— Boston Globe. 

THE BOIVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



ttbe TKHorfes of 

5ames TKHbitcomb IRiles 

Neghborly Poems 

Thirty-six poems in Hoosier dialect, includ- 
ing "The Old Swimmin' Hole and ' Leven 
More Poems, by Benjamin F. Johnson, of 
Boone," with eight half-tone illustrations. 
i2mo. cloth, $1.25; half calf, $2.50; full mo- 
rocco, $?.oo. 



Benjamin F. Johnson, of Boone — a " rare 
Ben Johnson," indeed — fathered these cute 
country whims, some of the best that the 
truest poet of to-day has given the world, in 
the quaint dressing of the Hoosier dialect. — 
Evening News, Buffalo. 

The poems included in this neat volume are 
idiomatic, droll and charming. They depict 
common things in an unusually natural way 
and touch many sympathetic chords. — The 
Treasury, New York. 

Mr. Riley, more than any other American 
poet who has essayed this style of poetic 
writing, has enriched this peculiar field with 
gems that will constitute a permanent part 
of our literature. — Omaha Bee. 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



XTbe TKIiorfes of 

James Mbttcomb IRUes 

Sketches in Prose 

Originally published as "The Boss Girl 
and Other Stories." Twelve graphic 
stories, each prefaced by a poem. 12 mo. 
cloth, $1.25; half calf, $2.50; full morocco, 
$5.00. 

When Mr. Riley publishes a new book the 
people who read rejoice. This last volume of 
his is as refreshing as a May morning, and is 
full of charming pen pictures, dainty bits of 
landscapes, homelike turnings of white paths 
through green fields are suggested with an 
almost pathetic vividness. There are some 
more of his delightful child studies, the merit 
of which lies somewhat in the wonderful 
child dialect, but mainly in the accurate and 
true interpretation of child -character. The 
poet understands the child perfectly, and 
places himself before us with absolute justice 
and a splendid sympathy for his most child- 
ish whims. Mr. Riley has discovered child- 
lore, and he has shown the true child-lore, 
and made us see the relation between it and 
folk-lore,— Nassau Library Magazine, 



THE BOIVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



XTbe movks ot 

James Mbitcomb IRtlep 

Pipes o* Pan 

Five sketches and fifty poems. The sketches 
are separated by four books of twelve poems 
each, with frontispiece. i2mo. cloth, $1.25; 
half calf, $2.50; full morocco, $5.00. 



His work in prose is really exquisite, though 
comparatively few are acquainted with it. 
Here is the conclusion of one of his tales, 
published in the " Pipes o' Pan at Zekes- 
bury." It is as simply natural as fact, as 
delicate as truth. It is at once so probable 
and so artistic that no one would venture to 
guess whether the writer created the incident 
or whether the incident created the tale. 
Here it is: 

" Well, Annie had just stooped to lift up 
one o' the little girls when the feller turned, 
and the'r eyes met. 'Annie, my wife!' he 
says: and Annie, she kind o' gave a little yelp 
like, and come a flutterin' down in his arms, 
and the jug of worter rolled clean acrost the 
road, and turned a somerset and knocked the 
cob out of its mouth, and jist laid back and 
hollered 'good-good-good -good-good!' like ef 
it knowed what was up, and was jist as glad 
and tickled as the rest of us." — Omaha World- 
Herald. 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



XTbe morfes of 

James Mbitcomb IRiles 

Afterwhiles 



Sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, 
pathetic, humorous and dialect, with frontis- 
piece. i2mo. cloth, $1.25; half calf, $2.50; 
full morocco, $5.00. 

It is easy, from his book of poems, After- 
whiles, to see how the work of Mr. James 
Whitcomb Riley has grown so widely popu- 
lar in the United States. Mostly his verse 
resembles Poe. But much more than that 
author he gives expression to the child-like 
simplicity which distinguishes Brother Jona- 
than among the nations in all matters of art. 
The poems in dialect are more enjoyable than 
the others for their humor and character. — 
The Scotsman, Edinburg. 

Mr. Riley has discovered the essential 
beauty of nature in the fields, and of pathos 
and sentiment in the heart of man, and has 
interpreted it with a fidelity and simplicity 
which will make his poetry live long after 
the elegant transcription from books and the 
inspirations from foreign life have faded away 
into the nothingness which is the doom of all 
artificial and imitation. — Providence Jour- 
nal. 

THE BOWEN- MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



TTfoe Morfts of 

James Wbftcomb IRiles 

Rhymes of Childhood 

One hundred and two dialect and serious 
poems. Not for children only, but of child- 
hood days, with frontispiece. i2mo. cloth, 
$1.25; half calf, $2.50; full morocco, $5.00. 



r James Whitcomb Riley's Rhymes of 
Childhood would be pronounced as ad- 
dressed to grown people, rather than to chil- 
dren of the age and experience of those whose 
thoughts and feelings figure in these pages. 
It is a delightful book from cover to cover, 
and displays a rare insight into the habits of 
mind of the child. The dialect, too, is true to 
nature, and seldom, if ever, overdrawn. — 
Overland Monthly. 

It is impossible not to give a hearty wel- 
come to this bundle of rhyme, with its tender 
human love and its irresistible humor. Mr. 
Riley, at his best and in his narrow but at- 
tractive field, is inimitable. No poet since 
Burns has sung so close to the ear of the com- 
mon people of the country. His " Hoosier" 
lyrics and his Rhymes of Childhood come 
very near to the line of perfection. — New 
Tork Independent. 

THE BOIVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Ube TPOlorfes of 

5ames Mbiteomb 1RUe$ 

The Flying Islands of the Night 

A weird and grotesque drama in verse. 
Fantastic, quaint and ingenious. i2mo. cloth, 
$1.25; half calf, $2.50; full morocco, $5.00. 



As the author states, this is "Thynge of 
Wytchencrof — an Idle Dreme." This latest 
production of the popular Western author 
is a dramatic poem in three acts. The verse, 
while being neither heroic nor lyric, partakes 
of the character of both. The entire poem is 
of the nature of a burlesque Q-pic.—-PJiiladel- 
phi a Item. 

A weird and grotesque drama in verse. 
In this book Mr. Riley's peculiar genius dis- 
plays a force and continuity not intimated in 
any previous work. The argument and plot 
are radically different from any known drama, 
fantastical in the highest degree, and beyond 
question, his most remarkably quaint and 
peculiar work, since in it he displays a spirit 
of ingenuity together with a depth and height 
of imagination that his work has never hith- 
erto suggested.— 'Baltimore News, 



THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO, 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Ube Worfes of 

James Mbftcomb IRiles 

Green Fields and Running Brooks 

One hundred and two poems and sonnets, 
dialect, humorous and serious. i2mo. cloth, 
$1.25; half calf, $2.50; full morocco, $5.00. 



Green Fields and Running Brooks 
is the latest volume of James Whitcomb 
Riley's poems we receive from the Bowen- 
Merrill Company, of Indianapolis. It is an 
enticing title, and its promise and allurement 
is well fulfilled in its pages. Mr. Riley is a 
singer by nature, and of nature human and 
extrahuman, and he has given no truer and 
sweeter songs to us than are in this book. — 
Republican, Springfield. 

Under the pretty title, Green Fields and 
Running Brooks — a phrase which almost 
insists on continuing itself into " Sermons 
in Stones" — the most recent productions of 
James Whitcomb Riley come to us, and prove 
the Hoosier bard to be very prolific, as well 
as a very sweet singer. — Christian Union, 
New York, 



THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Uhc TKllorfes of 

James Wbttcomb iRiles 

Armazindy 

Contains some of Mr. Riley's latest and best 
dialect and serious work, including "Arma- 
zindy" and the famous Poe Poem. r2mo. 
cloth, uniform with his other books, $1.25; 
half calf, $2.50; full morocco, $5.00. 



"Mr. Riley's new book of poems, "Arma- 
zindy," includes verses in dialect and verses 
in straight English, verses to touch the heart 
and verses to tickle the ribs, verses of homely 
sentiment, and nonsense verses which are 
truly reckless and altogether delightful. 'Ar- 
mazindy' is a characteristic poem in the 
Hoosier dialect, and there are some seventy 
other poems, and one prose sketch written 
after the style of Dickens." — Current His- 
tory. 

James Whitcomb Riley's simple verse has 
won a lasting place in the hearts of old and 
young, and the reasons for this are plain. He 
has a quick and fine appreciation of the beau- 
ties of what might seem to some only the 
commonplace and humdrum side of nature, 
and he opens our eyes to see the poetry in the 
very things that have seemed to us the dullest 
of prose. — Public Opinion, Washington, D. C. 

THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Ube IMorfes of 

James TOMtcomb IRiles 

Armazindy— -Holiday Edition 

It is square i2mo. in size, printed on hand- 
made paper, with uncut edges and gilt top. 
The illustrations consist of a new portrait of 
the author and five country scenes in photo- 
gravure. Cloth, $2.00 ; half calf, $4.00 ; full 
calf, $5.00. 

I have felt more interest in the Hoosier 
poet's work of late than in almost anything else 
which has appeared in a literary way. I tell 
you, James Whitcomb Riley is nothing short 
of a born poet and a veritable genius. He gets 
down into the heart of a man, and in a most 
telling way, too. I think he is a later Hosea 
Biglow, quite as original as the latter and 
more versatile in certain respects. I own 
a good deal of enthusiasm for this later prod- 
duct of Indiana soil. This delineator of 
lowly humanity, who sings with so much 
fervor, pathos, humor and grace, and who has 
done things, is it not correct to say, which 
will long be remembered, perhaps, which 
will outlast the more laborious work of some 
of the older and more pretentious poets. — 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Uhc XPOlorfes of 

James Wbitcomb IRiles 

Old Fashioned Roses 

Sixty-one selected poems and sonnets, pub- 
lished in England. It is a dainty i6mo. 
printed on hand-made paper, with untrimmed 
edges, gilt top, and very tastefully bound in 
blue and white cloth. It contains a great 
variety of serious, humorous and dialect 
pieces, and makes a handsome presentation 
edition of some of Mr. Riley's choicest poems. 
i6mo. cloth, gilt top, untrimmed, $1.75. 



The first thing that strikes the reader with 
James Whitcomb Riley is his originality. 
Here, evidently, is a man who would have 
felt the impulse to speak tunefully and to 
touch the springs of humor and of pathos had 
he lived before the invention of alphabets. 
In the absence of books, the lessons to be 
drawn from nature and from human life 
would have sufficed. With his own hand has 
been garnered his knowledge of the outer 
and of the inner world. He has seen with 
.lis own eyes, listened with his own ears, 
known in his own heart the sorrows and joys 
that he depicted. His landscapes are tran- 
scripts of his native woods and fields. — JVezv 
Tork Sun. 

THE BOIVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



Uhc Morfts of 

James Wbttcomb 1RUe£ 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine 

Illustrated with colored and monotint plates. 
The engravings are by the best artists of Bos- 
ton, and the book is handsomely bound in 
cloth. This favorite poem, so thoroughly en- 
joyed by the thousands of Mr. Riley's admir- 
ers, has been sympathetically sketched and 
portrayed with such artistic skill as to make 
it one of the most beautiful books yet pub- 
lished. 10x12 flat quarto, colored and mono- 
tint plates, combination cloth, full gilt, $2.50. 



Among the daintiest of dainty holiday 
books is the gift edition of James Whitcomb 
Riley's An Old Sweetheart of Mine. 
The text is in quaint lettering, with every 
page enriched by pretty designs from pen and 
b ru s h . — Ba It i more A m e r ica n . 

Each stanza fills a page, and is accompanied 
by an exquisite illustration. The paper, let- 
ter press, binding and illustrations are all of 
the finest, and the whole is an excellent speci- 
men of the bookmaker's art, and forms a fit 
setting for a poetic gem of the first water. — 
Indianapolis Sentinel. 



THE BOIVEN-MERRILL CO. 
INDIANAPOLIS AND 
KANSAS CITY. 



